


The Box

by Ghislainem70



Series: Overcome [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cock Stuffing, Kink, M/M, Porn, Sex Toys, Sounding, come at once lj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: Entry for Round 7 of the Come-at-Once 24-hour porn challenge on Livejournal.  The prompt was "I deleted it."





	

John emerged from under the waters of a rare Sunday afternoon nap. 

"Delivery for you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson was calling from the stair.

He was quite comfortable and drowsy.  He realised it was the first time he had dozed off in his old chair since moving back to 221b. 

"He says it's a personal delivery," Mrs. Hudson pursued, just from the other side of the door now.

John sighed.  Sherlock, of course, was not at home.  He vaguely recalled him muttering something about a haircut.  He unwound himself from his chair, stretched, and shuffled to the door.

In the doorway was a person distinctly not Mrs. Hudson.  The man was taller than Sherlock by several inches, impressively muscled, dressed in black leather, and covered in intricate black tattoos and numerous piercings.  He held a box wrapped in matte black paper.

"For Sherlock Holmes," he said. Brixton, John figured.  But his voice was surprisingly gentle.

"He's not at home at the moment.  I can take it." John held out his hands to accept the box.

"Do you live here, then?  Proper, I mean.  It's got to be a member of the household if the client is not at home."

_The client._

What was in the box?

"I live here."

The man's eyes held a flicker of curiousity, maybe even doubt.  The man evidently knew Sherlock, knew that Sherlock had been living alone.  And apparently didn't think John Watson looked like the sort of person he expected Sherlock to be living with.  John straightened.

"Maybe it's better if I come back when Mr. Holmes is at home.  I'll leave my card."

Now John really didn't want him to take the box away.  "Look, you can ask Mrs. Hudson,  she's our landlady, she'll tell you I do live here.  Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted, knowing it would irritate her.  But if he left to go fetch her, the man might take the box and leave.

The man nodded, tucked the box under his massive arm, and waited.  John noticed that he didn't handle it with any particular delicacy.  Whatever was inside wasn't breakable, apparently.

Or explosive.

Two minutes later, Mrs. Hudson had confirmed John's bona fides as a tenant of 221b, John had signed a delivery form,  and was holding the black box.

# # #

The box was light. 

He shook it a little but whatever was inside was well wrapped and there was no noise from within, particularly no ticking.  It definitely didn't feel heavy enough to contain an explosive device.  He smiled grimly.  This was his life,  he had chosen it and wouldn't want it any other way.  But they would probably never be able to accept packages like normal people did, greedily ripping open the box to inspect some commonplace new purchase.

If Sherlock had ordered this, whatever it was, it would not be banal.

 The delivery receipt gave no indication of the identity of the shipper of the contents, just initials,  a post box number, order number, and order date.

John was powerfully curious about the contents of the box, although he couldn't really say why.   He  even stooped to inspecting the wrapping to see if it could be peeled back without leaving any sign, and was ashamed of himself for having done so.  Also, it was utterly futile.  Sherlock's powers of observation would lead him to notice that the paper had been disturbed probably within ten paces.

He left the box on the table and pretended to himself that he was reading while keeping an eye on the box.

# # #

Sherlock returned with a fresh haircut, his curls perfectly groomed.  He looked devastating, and from the sidelong look he gave John as he entered the flat, he hoped John would notice.  His face fell slightly when John blurted, "You got a delivery while you were out," and pointed to the black-wrapped box without paying any attention at all to his hair.

Sherlock approached the box, scrutinized the delivery receipt.  He frowned slightly.

"Who brought this package?"

"Tall bloke covered in tattoos and black leather," he said, more pointedly than he had meant to.

Sherlock looked blank.  "Hmmm."  He sniffed the paper and shook the box, listening.

"You don't know what it is?"

Sherlock shook his head.  "Haven't a clue," he said wryly. 

"He called you _'the client_.'"

Sherlock's eyes met his steadily.  "That sounds a bit indiscreet.  Except that I haven't ordered anything recently."

John mentally kicked himself.   What if the box really was dangerous?  Poisonous gas or powder, for example. 

"Sherlock, put the box down, give it to me and let me open it.  It could be dangerous.  You don't know who sent it or what's in it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but when John took that particular tone of military command, he really couldn't help obeying.

John rummaged in his old duffle and brought out a gas mask and gloves.  He took the box into the bathroom, closed the shower, and gingerly tore back the black paper. 

Under the paper was a black box tied with black ribbon.  His heart thundering, he pulled the ribbon and let it fall, and opened the box.

Inside was a soft black leather case tied up with a black leather thong.  He felt it before he opened it.  Whatever was inside was hard, probably metal.  It reminded him of the feel of surgical instruments. 

Now he was virtually certain that the package wasn't dangerous, but some perverse curiosity propelled him to untie the thong and unroll the black leather. 

The case contained a row of long, very slender rods, each of a different size and shape.  Some had bulbous tips, others were smooth.  One item was quite elaborate, involving a ring, a rod, and tiny brass lock on the tip.  All looked to be crafted of surgical steel.

The thickest and longest of the steel rods had a glittering pale blue jewel set into the tip.  There was a white card tucked inside with strong, masculine handwriting in black ink. 

**_"The aquamarine is a gift, to match your eyes. Enjoy."_ **

Under the case was a box of lubricant.  Surgical grade.

His cock gave a little twitch.

"John! Are you all right? What's in the box?"  Sherlock shouted from the other side of the door.

"It's, ah . . . okay.  Be right out."

John removed his gloves and touched one of the gleaming silver rods with his fingertip.  It felt cold.

# # #

They sat on the sofa, the box on the table.  John was drinking whisky.  He was on his second glass.

"One more time. You really have no idea why this was sent to you?"

Sherlock had been pulling at his hair, spoiling his fresh curls.  John suspected that this was a deliberate tactic to distract him.  He was like a dog with a bone, though, and wouldn't let it go.  The card in the box was making him see red.  He knew he had no business being jealous over whatever Sherlock may have gotten up to while they were apart.  He had been married, after all.

"Look, it's none of my business.  But you don't have to lie to me.  I don't want any more lies or secrets between us.  You can tell me when you're comfortable.  But I ---"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes were blazing.  "What exactly do you want to know?  Are you asking me to tell you what I did for sex while I was gone?  What I did for sex after you married her?"

John had never, ever asked Sherlock such a thing.   But he thought about it.  A lot.

"Yeah," he said finally.  "I guess I am asking.  But you don't have to tell me."  Just the idea of Sherlock with another man made him feel sick.  He knew that was very wrong but he had never been able to help it.  He should have done something about it long before now.

Sherlock was silent for a while.  "I can't tell you," he said quietly. 

John's heart plummeted.  It must be much worse than he thought.

"Why can't you tell me?  You know whatever I imagine is going to be much worse than whatever it really is," he said,  hoping it was true.

"I deleted it."

# # #

Sherlock had deliberately deleted, it turned out, everything to do with his sexual experiences after the Fall,  until John finally returned to 221B.

"Why would you do  that?"

Sherlock shot him a look full of bitterness.  "Because . . . I only ever thought about you.  And after you got married, it just hurt too much, and it felt wrong.  Disloyal, in a way.  You had made your choice.  It was easier to just -- delete it.  All of it.  Although the process of deletion was something of a challenge."

"So . . . you don't remember ordering this stuff."

Sherlock's eyes were guileless.  "Not a bit.  But I can see that they were custom made.  Apparently, to my personal specifications."

They looked at the open box.  The steel gleamed red in the firelight.

"Do you . . . know what those are for? "  John felt himself flushing and his cock was uncomfortably tight.  Because he did know what the steel instruments were for, not from personal experience but unfortunately, from his medical experience.  Sometimes people did stupid things, and got hurt.

"Yes, I know what they are.  I can tell you one thing.  I am certain I ordered them for my own personal use.  I mean . . . not for a partner.  But I really did delete it, John.  All of it.  Still, I know this for sure.  There was no one else, John.  But I don't remember ordering this stuff, and I certainly don't remember ever having used. . .  anything like that."

Sherlock's gaze was boring into his, that combustible mix of innocence and boldness.

John climbed across the sofa and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Do you think you want to? With me?"

Sherlock's crooked smile went straight to his cock.  "I thought you'd never ask."

# # #

John prepared by sterilising his hands very carefully and warming the lube.  Sherlock lay back against the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, giving away his nervousness. 

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded.  "I think if I ordered them specially I must have found the sensation rather remarkable," he whispered, breathless.

John swore under his breath at this.  "We'll find out.  Make yourself hard for me, love.  I want to keep my hands very clean for this."

Sherlock tugged vigorously at his own cock, watching it grow and darken at the tip with as much concentration as if it were evidence of a crime.

John chose the narrowest, shortest rod to start, and used a syringe to gently press the warm lube into Sherlock's slit.  Sherlock gasped and quivered.

"Tell me how it feels."

"Like warm honey poured into my cock," Sherlock replied instantly.  "Keep going, John."

"I think your body remembers this." 

The lube was leaking from his slit.  He wanted to slick and pump it with his hands, it was so gorgeous. but this was all about sensation for Sherlock and he kept his hands busy with gently pulling the flesh of his slit taut and sliding the bare tip of the steel wand into the opening.

Sherlock's back arched as though he had been shocked.  John held the wand steady.

"Does it hurt?" 

Sherlock bit his lip.  "Stings a bit.  But its good.  Oh John, hurry, more, please."

Sherlock's intense focus on the tip of the rod entering his slit was among the most arousing things John had ever witnessed. 

"Fuck," he muttered, pushing the rod just a few millimeters further, and was rewarded with a guttural groan from Sherlock.  His cock had been hard, but now it swelled and engorged at the invasion of the steel rod to a seemingly impossible extent, shining and rigid with dripping lube.

"It feels like being stroked from the inside," Sherlock whispered.  "Hot and cold all at once."  He wrapped his fingers around his cock and gave it a long stroke.  "Ahhhhhh, I can feel it under my skin, I can't, I can't describe it.  Deeper, please."

John's cock was near to bursting just hearing this talk, but he tried to ignore the pressure building in his balls, heavy and hot.  One slip of the wrist and he could seriously hurt Sherlock.  He took a deep breath and steadily pushed the slender steel deeper still with the precision of a surgeon. 

Sherlock quivered and arched as if he were suspended by the rod itself, his head thrown back, mouth open in a helpless rictus.  A strangled groan escaped from his throat.  His cock was nearly purple, stiff and standing straight out as though it were hard metal, not flesh.  John wanted to touch it more than he had ever wanted anything, to feel that slick rigid member slide beneath his hand.  Instead, he urged Sherlock on. 

"Stroke yourself, slowly now.  I want to see you come like this."

They watched his spidery fingers glide over his engorged cock, the silver rod being slowly swallowed under John's careful guidance.

"It's like--being fucked-- inside my cock, all inside, hot and cold, tingles, it burns," Sherlock panted as he stroked himself harder.

"Not so rough," John ordered.  Sherlock moaned and slowed his stroke deliberately, quivering and panting.

"But I need to come now, I don't think I can come with it in, but I don't want you to take it out, don't, please don't take it out," Sherlock begged. 

For a few suspended minutes, John slowly lowered the rod until the bulbous tip plugged his slit and it was fully seated within Sherlock's cock.  Sherlock stroked himself lavishly, clearly holding back far more than he wanted to.  Whenever his hand moved too fast or too hard, John restrained his hand.

"Please, John, I have to come, I need to come now, help me," Sherlock finally gasped, his face pink and glistening with exertion.  They watched together as John withdrew the silver rod slowly, and not too soon as the climax rocked Sherlock, and his come spurted around the rod.

Sherlock was far too exhausted to attend to the urgent needs of John's prick, and John didn't hesitate but stroked himself and came all over Sherlock's pale, quivering belly and cock.

 

# # #

The next morning Sherlock surprised John by waking him by shaking him from above.  John rubbed his eyes.  There was something glittering in the morning sun through the window and dazzling his eyes.  He focused.

Sherlock was straddled over him, nearly naked.  His only attire was the steel device, which he had managed to put on with his clever fingers.  It was a cock ring attached to a long rod that fastened to a cock plug which Sherlock had evidently recalled how insert himself after last night's lesson in sounding.  The plug was fastened with the tiny brass lock at the tip. It looked very secure.

Sherlock's cock looked magnificent and very needy stuffed into its steely cage.

"Good morning, gorgeous.  Looks like you remembered how to play with your toys," he observed.  "But you need to give me the key.  Where's the key?"

Sherlock looked sly and utterly debauched.  "Key?"

"This isn't a game, Sherlock, where's the bloody key!?"

Sherlock bit his lip and put John's hand around the steel device.  "If you help me come, I'll tell you."

 


End file.
